Stole The Show
by stellarations
Summary: Every day is the same. She dresses in the same red leotard, mindlessly ties her ballet shoes on, and joins her partner on the stage. Every day is the same, but after her ballet shoes slip to the floor and her leotard lies crumpled on the mattress, she thinks; I might just be in love with him. [twenties au]


chapter one:

In her dreams, Natalia sees Baba Yaga.

She sees the old witch in all her forms – short and tall; happy and sad; peaceful and unrelenting. She sees the thin lines across her face, and the gaps in her mouth. She sees her eyes – dark with fury, and her teeth – rotten and jagged. She notices the way Baba Yaga speaks – deep and quiet, like gravel making its way up her throat; like sand stuck in between her toes, her voice reverberating around the dimly-lit room, bouncing off the thin walls.

In her dreams, Baba Yaga whispers:

"Natalia, you can do better." and never looks disappointed, nor reproachful, but looks at Natalia with a sharp glint in her eyes. "Natalia," she cackles, reaching for one of Natalia's crimson curls. "Natalia, Natalia, _Natalia,"_ She cups Natalia's face in her weathered hands. "Do better."

Natalia listens to Baba Yaga because she is right, like always, and when Natasha was a little girl - all bright curls and innocent green eyes, Baba Yaga was there for her.

Not her father – who hanged himself, one hand holding an empty bottle of vodka, and the other holding a hastily scribbled note: 'I had to do it'.

Not her mother, who was shot by the rebels when they marched into her hometown. Not her poor, poor brother – who she killed, with a small knife she had concealed in her ballet shoes.

Natalia still remembers that night, when they were almost out of food and the Red Room had said:

"Come, Natalia. Join us – be a ballerina." and little Natalia had accepted, desperate and hungry.

 _("-and kill your kin," they had asked of her, handing her a small knife. "You want to do ballet? Prove it.")_

Baba Yaga was there that night, when Natalia plunged the knife into her brother's heart and watched as he cried out for their deceased mother, his eyes blazing with hurt and betrayal.

Baba Yaga offered no words of comfort - no pat on the head, no warm hug, not even a small kiss on Natalia's forehead. Instead, she shook her head, her face twisting into a malicious smile.

"Natalia," she hissed as she pressed her bony fingers to her brother's heart. "You can do better."

Natalia sees all the forms of Baba Yaga, yet she sees none.

x

"Again."

Madame's cane slams down, and Natalia rises en pointe, ankles shaking and tendons screaming. Crimson stains pink ribbons. Sweat pours. The tiny, smoke-filled room is bathed in ethereal moonlight. She struggles to draw breath.

"Again." Her cold black gaze evaluates Natalia, holding the power to condemn or save her.

Natalia wavers, faltering into a arabesque turn. Her corseted tutu constricts with each breath, crushing and molding her. Her brother's lifeless body lies crumpled and broken in the middle of the floor. Salt stings cracked lips as she twirls past him -avoiding bloodstains. _She has caused this._

"Again."

Natalia spreads her arms, stretching them towards the bar - and her arms go up in fifth position, then slowly back down to third. She curves her fingers - but she can feel Ivan's blood underneath her fingernails.

"Again!" Madame barks at Natalia with furious eyes. "You can - _you must do better!"_

 _I can do better;_ Natalia thinks to herself - repeats those four words in her head. _I can do better;_ she tells herself as she melts into the music, biting down hard on her cheek to keep herself from screaming. I must. But her breath hitches, and she chokes.

"I can't breathe." she croaks.

"Natalia," Madame grabs her roughly by the arm and strikes, leaving an angry red handprint on her face. "You will not disappoint me - you will keep your rank as the prima donna in the Red Room. You wished to be a dancer, so dance!"

Natalia gasps, unable to hide her pain. She is a marionette, dancing to the tune of a thousand tangled strings. _Plie, glissade, pique turn._ The room is thick with the scent of her brother's blood and Madame's cigarettes.

She did not wish to be a dancer. She danced for Madame in return for a few slices of black rye bread and a place for her brother off the streets. It was always for Ivan. Until tonight, when Madame had handed her a knife. What has she _done?_ She has danced her soul away.

Bright head raised high, Natalia finishes the dance, ending in a sweeping bow. Her cheek burns. Her shoulders heave when the song fades, and she expels everything in her stomach. _She is a murderer._

"Tonight," Ignoring the pool of vomit, Madame kneels beside the shaking girl, smoke swirling about her dark form like a cloak, "you are a true ballerina, my prima." Her wrinkled claw of a hand cups Natalia's bright curls as she sags in her pretty costume, bloodstained palms outstretched.

 _(Tonight, Natalia belongs to the Red Room. Tonight, she has been unmade.)_

x

Clint can smell the burning remnants of the fire from the night's performance; the taste of the burning coals - hot and bitter on his tongue. He watches as the horses are taken away, as the tent is neatly folded and packed up, and as the performers leave the ring, animatedly discussing the successful performance.

He quickly shoulders his bow and jumps down from the tree, making his way back to his caravan in silence.

"Going somewhere, Barton?" The dry and sarcastic voice of the Ringmaster makes Clint halt and stop in his steps.

"Back to my caravan, sir," Clint replies, his voice the very pinnacle of politeness. "Unless there is anything you would like to ask of me." he quickly adds.

"I have a job for you," Ringmaster Fury answers, and raises one dark eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you're otherwise occupied."

This is Fury's version of _'no negotiations – you will come with me now_ ' so he silently follows Fury through the flattened grass, dodging the smiling performers, the leftover audience, and a very enthusiastic Kate Bishop before they finally arrive at the ringmaster's office.

Nicholas Fury eases himself down into a leather seat- his version of a throne and reaches for a coffee mug filled with steaming dark liquid. He stirs in sugar and cream before sipping and sighing contentedly.

Clint stands before him, tapping his finger against his leg, gaze darting around the room. Fury hardly calls performers into his office - usually, if there's an issue, Fury's second-in-command, Maria Hill, will deal with it.

"So," Clint mutters, after a minutes passes with not a sound, save for the clinking of Fury's spoon against his mug. "What's the job, sir?"

Fury sets down his coffee. He reaches over his shoulder, and after a moment of deliberation, he pulls out a folder from his bookshelf, and slaps it down on the table with a long sigh.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova, codename: Black Widow. Current position: Active, in Tsarytsin - I want you to dispose of her."

Clint blinks at Fury. He was expecting his former commander to order him to muck out elephant stalls again.

"Sir? We haven't dealt with international affairs since the end of the war, and we haven't contacted Russia since the Tsar and his family were assassinated five years ago. No matter what it once was, SHIELD is stationed as a traveling circus. _You-"_ He jabs a finger at Fury. "Are supposed to be retired. Why the new assignment?"

Fury nods slowly.

"I am aware, Barton," he acknowledges, "But the US government has ordered for her, if not the entire Red Room organization, to be put down."

Clint blinks again.

"Isn't that a little harsh, sir?" He picks up the folder with a frown and thumbs through it. It's surprisingly thick. A black and white photograph of the woman falls and he catches it, holding it up to the light. She's very pretty, and very young.

"What did she _do?"_

Fury grimaces.

"The Red Room trains girls to become weapons in...an unconventional fashion. Natalia is a ballerina. During every single performance she has held, at least one of our men has perished."

"Maybe they should stop attending her performances." Clint mutters. "Why is this any of our concern? She's in Russia - We're in America. Shouldn't the Russian government be dealing with this?"

Fury shoots a sharp look at Clint.

"She murdered a very popular American politician, as well as various other agents this year. Also, Barton -" Fury pauses, and adjusts his eyepatch. "You know what's going on in Russia. You're not a fool."

"Maybe they are trying to send us a message," Clint reasons. "They could be telling us to not enter Russia - after all, there are a few problems that the government has to deal with right now."

Nick stares at him solemnly with his single, uninjured eye.

"Then, Agent Barton, I suggest you ignore the message. The details of your mission will be sent to you upon arrival."

"Russia-" Clint splutters. "You know what happened last time, sir."

Of course Fury knows about the last time - the whole of SHIELD underground knows about Clint's _little_ mishap with the the Red Army. The Red Army had mistakenly marked him for a Bolshevik. SHIELD sent a long and arduous letter telling the Red Army that Clint was, in fact, American. It arrived three weeks later, during which time he had spent freezing in a Siberian prison.

Fury arches another eyebrow, looking at Clint with a placid expression on his face.

"Who do you suggest I ask? Morse is in England, May's in Japan, and you know Coulson won't do anything like this. He doesn't even speak Russian."

Fury gives Clint his _'this mission is nonnegotiable, and I suggest you pack earmuffs'_ expression. Clint runs a hand through his hair with a groan.

"When do I leave, Sir?"

"Tomorrow," Fury replies, satisfied. He gathers up the file and hands it to a reluctant Clint. "At dawn."

x

Clint can only dread the next month. Although he has packed his warmest clothes and his fluffiest earmuffs, he knows that the odds of him surviving in the harsh climate and against the deadly black widow are small.

Silently, he hands the ticket to the beaming bellboy and shuffles abroad the ship. He has no time to admire the tasteful decor - he knows that he is only in first class because Fury feels bad for him, and the government has probably paid the circus a lot of money for Clint to do this mission. On his way back, Fury has promised a hydroplane, so it'll take less time for Clint to travel home.

He reaches his cabin and is greeted by a whiff of strong perfume. Clint wrinkles his nose and gestures to the young baggage steward to drop his luggage and leave.

The only thing Clint can think about is his target-nineteen year old Natalia Romanova. Her file doesn't say much about her childhood - it glosses over the details, citing a troubled upbringing. Instead, it focuses on the red room. Her file tells tales of terror and brutality - tales that will frighten any child. He closes the file, unable to concentrate on the pages of information.

Clint doesn't believe many things, but he does believe in second chances. When he was a scowling fifteen year old - _bruised_ and _bloodied_ and beaten _black and blue_ , Coulson had taken him in. Coulson had let Clint in, let the fifteen year old curse and kick at him until he himself had a split lip and bloody nose. Coulson had let Clint release all the anger locked up inside him, and offered supporting words as fat, angry tears trickled down Clint's cheeks. Coulson had given Clint a second chance, and Clint almost wants to give the Black Widow one too.

He knows that this is not the mindset he should have - he should be thinking about killing her, not saving her.

As the ship sails through the night, gently rocking to the ebb and the flow of the tranquil waves, Clint pushes the Black Widow out of his mind and dreams of home.

x

Natalia is vaguely aware of a strange presence tailing her – she can feel its shadow, heavy and dark on her back, and its hawk-like eyes watching every step and every action. It could be something friendly - but she can feel - she _knows,_ that it is not.

She instinctively moves a hand towards the poison hidden in her hair, but slowly takes it down instead – she has no idea what this thing is.

x

He appears in a moonbeam, so light on his feet that she does not spot him until he is ten feet away.

"Agent Romanova." he says.

The two words rock her to the core. Her profession demands amnimity and she has never been recognized. She is a ghost, weaving through Russia on a web of silk.

She stares at him with narrowed, furious eyes. He shreds her web with those words, leaving her compromised and shivering in the cold. Agent Romanova...How long had it been since anyone recognized her?

 _His accent is strange,_ she thinks. _...American._ Her whirring, calculating mind tells her to strike hard and fast, leaving him paralyzed. _Kill him now._

Her stiff fingers move to the gun nestled at her thigh, and his eyes flicker, but he doesn't reach for a weapon.

She pauses, fingers agonizingly close to her gun – there is something about him that fascinates her – maybe it is the way he speaks, or perhaps the way he holds himself with grim determination. She pulls away from the gun.

"Who are you?" Her accent rasps roughly against her aching throat. She has caught sick in the bitter winter cold. In her pocket is the receipt for the medicine Madame has sent her to fetch. Addled by fever, Natalia trips on a cobblestone when he comes closer.

"Someone. Come with me –" he says, and stretches a calloused hand towards her. "Leave this place, _vdova- widow."_

The codename sends shivers curling down her spine and her hands are fists, senses heightened.

 _"Niet."_

But he is suddenly very close. Leather meets pale fingers, smooth and warm, and intimate, and too close - too soon.

"Come with me." he repeats, white breaths mingling with hers. "and I'll get the red out of your ledger."

She flutters. Falters. She is a bird, and he has offered her the key to her cage, and _she cannot breathe._

Her breath hitches in her throat as a question hovers on the tip of her tongue. _How does he know?_

She can feel the bird – her heart, her soul, pound relentlessly in its cage. The metal bars creak, and hope flutters through the gaps, bursting out of her body. _Why has he come for her?_

"You deserve a second chance," he replies in answer to her silent question. His expression does not change – it is carefully blank, like he has used a piece of cloth to wipe away his emotions.

Natalia scoffs, and snatches back her hope, tucking it into her breast.

"I don't need a second chance." she hisses, stepping away.

"Everyone does," he counters, and his expression is still fairly neutral, but faint warmth slips in, warming her frozen bones. "I got mine. I believe you should get yours too."

Madame promised Natalia another chance long ago. _Fool me twice, shame on me._

"Niet," she repeats, but her fingers tremble and she thinks of Ivan - Ivan with his large brown eyes and his mop of chocolate hair. "Niet. _Niet!"_

His eyes don't waver, and his gaze holds steady. Despite his relaxed stance, his hand flutters, concealing a weapon- _when had he drawn it?_

"Who is Ivan?" he asks, tone curious.

Natalia goes still. She does not feel the snow that falls, covering her shoulders. Her gaze is fixed on his. A filter of red steadily covers her vision. Has she said the name aloud in her fevered state? Oh, but he cannot know it. It stabs her worse than all other wounds he could have possibly bestowed on her.

She grits her teeth and reminds herself that she is a weapon, born of blood and agony, and honed to deadly accuracy. Every curve of her is primed for annihilation, soul discarded and replaced with steel. She won't let a name rip aside her armor. This man has done enough damage tonight. _Destroy what weakens you._

Her weapon flashes in the moonlight- a sleek black pistol with a silencer attached. Her dead gaze flits over his before she aims and shoots him neatly in the heart. She loves her gun. With a bullet, The Black Widow can bring down the fiercest warriors. _Sometimes the smallest things destroy the most._

She feels nothing as he crumples into the shadows with a startled groan. Buzzing fills her ears as she strips him of his arrows and vanishes into the night.

A sliver of exhilaration slips into her step as she makes her way back to the Red Room, and she smiles grimly. Perhaps Madame will reward her for bringing down the American. Perhaps she will not beat her for being late.

x

 _Two nights later_

After her final performance for Madame, Natalia will never dance again. As a senior agent, she'll stray from the theater and venture onto more enticing missions than collecting medicine from the corner shop. Her training will be complete, and she'll receive a large compensation for every kill she makes. _If she survives tonight._

Natalia's tutu digs into her waist like a boa constrictor. Her body is a constellation of bruises and scars, but she ignores the ache in her limbs as she tests her toe shoes, stretching the arch.

She can lace the shoes' pink satin ribbons in her sleep, but tonight, she stares at them. This will be the last time she wears toe shoes, and she's not sure whether she will burn them in celebration after her performance, or mourn the loss of them.

After tonight, she will receive a list of targets and she will kill each and every one of them. Natalia craves fist flying, bullet whizzing, heart bursting _murder_ after the tedious hours spent sweating in the studio, preparing for this moment. She is ready to _soar_. She tells herself she will be free, but she knows that flight comes with a chain, tethering her forever. There is no freedom. Madame holds her key.

Darkness has knit her battered soul back together after Ivan's death, and she cannot rid herself of it. She doesn't know if she wants to. It is her home, and her identity, and her refuge from the ice and the cold. Tucked within the wings of the Red Room, she survives, spinning webs to annihilate her enemies.

Natalia peeks through the curtains at the crowd. It is filled with men that conduct villainous business in the underbelly of Russia. They come to assess her, and _if she's lucky_ to hire her. After tonight, she may be assigned missions as a hit woman, a spy, an assassin, loaned out to anyone rich enough to afford her very specific skill set.

The orchestra begins her piece. Her shoulderblades hug her spine. In the audience, the lights dim. She sees nothing. With one satin slipper in front of another, she glides onto the black stage, ready to steal the show.

Natalia Romanova is a lit match drenched in gasoline, red hair flaming, eyes burning with determination. The music swells.

She explodes.

x

an: Okay, so the 'vasilia the beautiful' fairytale (this is going to be referenced a few times in this story, so if you don't know what it is, search it up!) was written in the 1860's, and since this story takes place in the 1920's, that won't really make sense for it to be written just about forty years before when the story starts as I'm trying to pretend it's some kind of 'ancient mythological myth' – so ignore what wikipedia says. Title taken from the song 'stole the show' by kygo.

Thank you so much to A Pencil In Her Hand. Without her, I wouldn't have been able to publish this first chapter. She has helped me so much with this chapter - I cannot thank her enough. Thank you, GG, and I love you.


End file.
